I am sinful, doubting, fearing-- Thou canst banish all alarm; I am weak, and blind, and erring-- Thou canst shield from every harm. VI. Look upon me, crushed and broken, Humble, contrite, at Thy feet. Dost Thou know me? Hast Thou spoken? “Hast Thou come Thy child to meet!” VII. Lost and found! Once dead, now living! Once an outcast, now a son! Once despairing, now believing,-- I my Father’s house have won. BALLYSHANNON, 1855. IT IS THE QUIET HOUR. It is the quiet hour, when weary Day Whispers adieu in his dark Sister’s ear, And my lone soul is wandering away To blissful scenes that are no longer near; And well-known faces seem to smile again, And voices long unheard sound blithe and gay, As, when, of yore, a happy, careless train, We plucked the flowers that grew by life’s young way. Sweet flowers!--destined to a swift decay! Bright faces!--that on earth have smiled your last! Gay voices!--that have ceased to sing the lay That rose spontaneous in the joyous past! Memory’s own stars amid my night of pain, Shine out and tell me “Love is not in vain!” ESSAYS IN TRANSLATION. HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE. THE PARTING. (_Homer’s Iliad_ vi. 369-503.) Thus, having done his duty to his gods And to his country, Hector sought his home, Where Art and Nature vied in loveliness. Love winged his feet; his home he quickly found. But her whom his soul loved he found not there, Her of the snowy arms, Andromache: For she, with infant child and well-robed nurse, Unto a tower that faced the Grecian camp Had gone to watch and weep. So Hector paused Upon the threshold, as he left the house, And made enquiry of the household maids: “Come now, handmaidens, answer me in truth, Whither white-armed Andromache has gone, To seek my sisters, or my brothers’ wives, Or to Athene’s temple, where a crowd Of matrons seek the bright-haired goddess’ wrath To turn to mercy by the strength of tears?” A trusty servant quickly made response: “Hector, my lord, right willingly my lips Shall answer truthfully thy eager quest,-- Not to thy sisters, nor thy brothers’ wives, Nor to Athene’s temple, where a crowd Of matrons seek the bright haired goddess’ wrath To turn to mercy by the strength of tears, Has gone Andromache; but she has gone Unto a lofty tower of Ilion To watch the contest, for bad tidings came Of Greeks victorious and of Trojans slain; And at this moment, like a frenzied one, She rushes to the rampart, while, behind, Her darling boy is carried by his nurse.”